Tuesday, October 04, 2011
Seriously, I'm Not Dead...
Dead Yet. Battery re-charging has taken much longer than anticipated and reading some books this past Summer has been a delightful pleasure.
Appreciation goes out to Whisky Prajer for checking up on me to see if I was still fogging the mirror.
Appreciation goes out to Whisky Prajer for checking up on me to see if I was still fogging the mirror.
Labels: Effluvia
Monday, December 28, 2009
A Gotta Have
The Carharrt J162 Waterproof Breathable Jacket
Why was I holding on to those hole-y jeans and shirts and flapping shoes? Because I was holding on to my self or, at least, my self-deluded semblance of self.
I'm having similar thoughts these days as regards a jacket I acquired back in early April, 2009. The weather in the Middle Atlantic states was measured in inches. Precipitation of all varieties and me with no jacket with water-proof qualities. Water-resistant, yes but the level of resistance was worn down quickly by the torrents of rain. So, with previous experience with Carhartt's products, I thought I'd give this jacket a try; the place I purchased it from had a generous return policy so risk was minimal (and the price wasn't bad ,$110 v $130 on Carharrt's own site).
It's December now and this jacket has been worn in the rain, the snow, the sleet, and even in those most vicious of conditions, the fashion standard capital, a.k.a. Paris. It came through with nary a scratch nor a leak nor a snear. Great stitiching, ample qty of pockets (all well-placed...though the jacket definitely leans toward right-handedness), taped seems, drawcorded hem, easy to clean fabric. Very important element was this jacket's design which made movement easy and unconstrained. I've worn this jacket most every day from April through May and then mid-September through December. The color and fabric condition have held up quite well; the black color gives the coat a "dressier" quality that broadens the scope of where you can wear the jacket.
And, as advertised, the jacket is most definitley water-proof.
So, I'm at a decision point. Do I buy another jacket as a backup, simply hanging it in the future wear closet? Or do I take my chances that this gem will not wear out or, if it does, the same model (and quality) is available? My "Click to Buy" finger is getting itchy; I'm reflecting on future happiness.
Labels: Domestic Burdens, Effluvia, Manly Advice
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Au Paris
Apologies to the faithful (few, alas) coming here for some respite from the day. I've been (and am) in Paris for a short visit. Apropos the rainy weather, just returned from a visit to Cimetiere Montparnasse, tracking down the burial spots of Man Ray, Constantis Brancusi, Alfred Dreyfus, Samuel Beckett, and (still trying to figure out the whole point of this grave) Jean Paul Sartre. Nano tunes playing in the background while walking in the appropriate drizzle? Tortoise's TNT. "I Set My Face to the Hillside" was the track that had me floating off my feet as I glided along Allee Lenoir.
Pics to follow at some point later. No pressure at all to see specific sights or do the Parisian things. I've been blessed with a pseudo-native guide that's been put under Paris'spell.
Mais, mainent a tous les gens qui visitez ici...dan une autre temps.
et..
excusez mon tres mal Francaise.
Pics to follow at some point later. No pressure at all to see specific sights or do the Parisian things. I've been blessed with a pseudo-native guide that's been put under Paris'spell.
Mais, mainent a tous les gens qui visitez ici...dan une autre temps.
et..
excusez mon tres mal Francaise.
Labels: Effluvia, Family Matters, Trips
Thursday, October 01, 2009
A Luddite - I've Had It With Modern "Conveniences"
I'm getting one of these. Soon. Soon, as in I-wish-I-had-it-2-Days-Ago soon. Call me a Luddite. Go ahead. I welcome the label. I'll go out and buy a t-shirt emblazoned with a large L and I'll wear that t-shirt proudly.I'm not what you'd call a leading edge kind of guy. Slavic sensibilities dictate that I stand on the sidewalk and watch the parade of fearless leading-edgers straggle by, all cut up, bleeding, and limb-less. Let these curious, daring, masochistic types soldier on, I say. Me, I'll wait until the fallout of new products has been cleaned up leaving items proven to work.
So, I thought it was safe a few years back to venture into the electronic memopads, the Palm Pilot world. I've had my Palm Pilot II for about 8 years now, generally pleased with the single purpose I'd used it for, namely replacing a compressed and tattered memo pad wadded up in various backpockets. But, the hiccups with the PP II were getting more unpleasant. The mysterious disappearance of entries, the total disappearance of all entries, the fast battery drain, the screen one couldn't read in any dim light.
Then, 2 days ago, a complete shutdown. Batteries zonked, data disappeared, on/off tab inconsistently working and, horror of horrors, I hadn't backed up the PP II in over 3 months as my barely-1-yr-old Dell, nicknamed Dreck, crashed. I was not a happy camper.
Streadily over the last 3-4 months, I have had it with the galaxy of electronica; I'm setting off into a different universe (how's this astronomy analogy holding up? Inaccurate, right?). I'm tired of backing up data. I'm tired of punching stuff in and than re-punching as my fingers clumsily spell out things differently than what my brain is telling them. I'm tired of loading batteries upon batteries into things that are alleged "life" support devices. What the heck's wrong with a manual operation? My handwriting's gone to hell from disuse. Penmanship was next to Godliness when I was a tyke; now it's totally jumblethwacked.
So, with hopes that my mind does remember some of those passwords, codes, and pseudonyms I've devised for my sites, my charge cards, my bank, my zen chants, I'll be jotting them down into this book. A book, which will be permanently chained to my body so that my manual auxiliary memory will be close to me.
Now, if I could only find a replacement for this, I'd be a smiling fool. Think this may work? I've got spools and spools of string somewhere down in the basement..
Labels: Domestic Burdens, Effluvia, Idiosyncracies, Life Decisions
Friday, September 11, 2009
Planning My Next Life
Just covering all of my bases. Want to make sure that next time around, I've the got the handsome thing done right. Great hair color, a set of piercing (but not scary terrorist) eyes, a rakish yet responsible look, and, most importantly, an inviting disposition that immediately invites scratches behind the ears, low rumbled conversations, basic food and water, and eternally long backrubs.So, Todd Snider's Dog, next life around, I'm coming back as you!
Labels: Effluvia, Family Matters, Quirks
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Clearing the Room
In his own inimitable way, Stephenesque provides timely and useful advice for everyday living. The tidbits are always blessed with a bite of ennui and a dash of
Here, he provides an excellent monologue to deliver in the conference room when folks are stuck in that moment where almost everything necessary to discuss has been discussed and the Sargasso Sea rolls in immobilizing all. How to get out of the tangle of boring patter. Mr. Fez shows the way. Bathroom humour on a higher level.
Here, he provides an excellent monologue to deliver in the conference room when folks are stuck in that moment where almost everything necessary to discuss has been discussed and the Sargasso Sea rolls in immobilizing all. How to get out of the tangle of boring patter. Mr. Fez shows the way. Bathroom humour on a higher level.
Labels: Educational, Effluvia
Friday, July 31, 2009
Drachenfutter
A discussion of spinning ideas at any drinking establishment will, at some point, veer off into "The Economic State", specifically, "My Economic State". An important sub-category of said state is the can't-go-wrong scheme of "My Business Model". The crowd is usually deep into their respective cups at this juncture. Most of your drinking buds are leering between drunk and drowsy with quizzical looks on their faces wondering how you're still extemporaneously conversing in a semi-intelligent matter.
As a well-read Wodehouse fan, you are familiar with the Ways of Mulliner, so flights of verbal fancy are not new to you as you start winging your economic treatise on running your own shop. Like most kids, the thrill of being in a favorite store (pick your poison here, candy & comics emporium, 7-11’s, Dollar Variety stores, etc.) left you thinking, "Hey! I could do better than this when I grow up! I can be an adult AND enjoy my inner kid at my store all day!"
Fortunately, most of us realize late in our teens that running a store specifically designed to sell items to yourself will have a very limited customer base. Some guys only realize this after cleaning out their hard-earned meager savings on such entrepreneurial endeavors as "Used Tonkas 'R Us" or "Chew 'N Chat: THE Bubblegum Shoppe".
With a college degree folded and tucked into your back pocket and mental scabs acquired, picked at, and healed from life as you know it, some basic conclusions can be Sharpied for sake of permanency.
1)Men and women live in the same State, but on different sides of a river in said State.
2)While men like to cross the river for exploratory purposes, permanent occupation is a fleeting thought.
3)Crossing the river can be a perilous journey cursed with a plethora of words, the latter usually put together into complicated sentence structures discernible only by the female residents of the other side of the river.
4)When crossing the river in one’s bateau it’s always a good idea to be bearing a cadeau.
5)No matter what condition the rest of the world is in economically, principles #1 through #4 are always true.
Making these tested truths the cornerstone (some would say "Mission Statement"; others would say, "I will put a hurt on you if you use that "Mission Statement" crap again!") of your Shop Model, you conclude that YOUR shop model could do well selling to the potential customer base of 50% of the human population. Never underestimate the stupidity of people, but always overestimate the stupidity of a guy. The latter, and I throw myself into that distinguished pile, are incapable of learning/remembering from their encounters with the people living on the other side of the river. As your business target, the Guy is a perfect fit for your product.
The product? One word will cover it.
Drachenfutter.
A wonderful word to describe both your product and one to use as your store’s name. The beauty of your concept is that the store will be self-perpetuating as long as all of the staff is male. The product you will be offering, whether it takes the form of flowers, candies, watches, jewelry, cars, books, stuffed creatures of non-zoological connections, must be chosen and recommended by men. This will guarantee a same-sex "sigh and understanding" moment while simultaneously nixing the success of said gift when presented, thus forcing a return trip some time later for another drachenfutter. Having an employee of the female persuasion may lead to a successful gift sale, true. But, you are looking for repeat business and, in the case of male/female relations, nothing brings drachenfutter success like failure.
You must think big. Drachenfutter knows no national borders. You can be the capo de capos of Gift Giving Futility and earning a nice amount of change. Guys are internationally crossing that river at their own peril even as I type. They should all be armed with gifts to lay before the dame. You, sir, are asked to provide the temporary salve
Labels: BIzNiz, Effluvia, People
Friday, June 19, 2009
Wheel of Organization
In the realm of infinite possibilities that is particular to sleep, occasionally the self-guided engagement of personal problem-solving takes purchase in the frontal lobe. In indirect relation to my work-related tasks, my level of (dis)organization at home is both cause for embarrassment and for easy ridicule. As a weak defense, I offer up W.C Fields' horizontal methodology toward filing, which works well if you're into sedimentology and hope that the crush of paper will "concentrate" your filing needs. With the cure-all of shut eye, my problems are solved. It's with waking that the reality of definite solution conflicts with the perfection of dreams.
What I truly need are desks; the more multiple the better. Though the attraction of file cabinets is strong, my home-related preferred lifestyle is not to shut away things but to leave them out as reminders and brain-hints. Space is obviously an issue when discussing furniture addition. In a dinky home, space, furniture and the interplay of the two become seeds for daily chewing. How to arrange and how to stock and how not to go bump in the night leaves one exhausted enough to eagerly welcome sleep from which all successful (if only temporary) solutions flow.
So, I came up with this. A water-wheeled desk. Circles are perfect, no? The paddles would be 18-25 inches deep and all hinged, on each side, in one space. So, as you turn the wheel, the magic of gravity keeps the upcoming desk level. For those previously cursed with cathedral ceilings, fell blessed now as your water wheel desk can have a diameter that we, with 10 ft ceilings can only dream about. I’d have the wheel made from cedar, so as to provide a fabulous scent to one’s desk-sitting, and the desk surfaces made in a variety of woods, say birch, cherry, and maple.
Just have to see if this idea will fly with the Ever-Loving Wife. She just may be on her last organization-related idea nerve; the next idea may just push her into the Chuck-It-All Zone.
Labels: Effluvia, Self-Therapy
Friday, April 24, 2009
A Word for Today : Onychophobia
Not that there's anything wrong with any of this, the question is are they true (tongue pressed firmly into cheek)?
Labels: Effluvia, Idiosyncracies, People
Friday, November 21, 2008
Government Waste
This movie sounds like a must-see to me. Talk about a total waste of government time, money, and personnel (read that as "a total waste of taxpayer money") to spend any federal time going after Tommy Chong.
Geez....! Leave the Canadian alone.
Geez....! Leave the Canadian alone.
Labels: Effluvia
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
My Money. Their Spending.
I know Mr. Obama has been getting slammed from the time that he started running about how he was inexperienced, how he was always campaigning for the next job, how he never really did anything in the job he was elected to due to time constraints required by the job he was next to have. I won't bother with this fool's errand of a task to deal with the moans and groans.
Instead, if you're not already familiar with this site, let me point you USAspending.gov, a site created due to one of Mr. Obama's initiatives that was put into action.
It's a fabulous (and fabulously depressing) place to go to. When they start loading in the $700 billion economy salvation package details, I'll be sure to stop by and check it out. I'll just to make sure not to carry any sharp instruments with me.
So, what's interesting? Well, it seems in the list of the Top 100 Recipients for FY 2008 (Oct 1, 2007 through Sept. 30, 2008), Air India was at #93, having received $900,354,357. Yes, that is 900 MILLION paid not to a foreign government, but to a foreign airline. I did not see any American airlines in that Top 100 list.
Another search revealed that in the federal assistance provided to my home state of Delaware for the FY 2008, coming in at #10, with a total of $12,935,000, was Providence Creek Academy Charter School. $12 Million Dollars. To one school. I'm no auditor, but looking at their financial statements, I did not see any lines on the financial statements indicating outstanding loans of that size, contributed assets of that size, and certainly not income of that size. No magic footnotes either, mentioning such a large windfall. Hmmmmm.
In FY 2002, it seems The Sands Inc, owners of a hotel and restaurant in Rehoboth Beach were #10 in the top ten list of Delaware recipients of US Government assistance, with $19,500,000. Wonder if I could mention this the next time I go as a reason to comp or at least reduce my room rates.
This site is quite useful, as long as you have a long tall glass of Pepto by your side.
Instead, if you're not already familiar with this site, let me point you USAspending.gov, a site created due to one of Mr. Obama's initiatives that was put into action.
It's a fabulous (and fabulously depressing) place to go to. When they start loading in the $700 billion economy salvation package details, I'll be sure to stop by and check it out. I'll just to make sure not to carry any sharp instruments with me.
So, what's interesting? Well, it seems in the list of the Top 100 Recipients for FY 2008 (Oct 1, 2007 through Sept. 30, 2008), Air India was at #93, having received $900,354,357. Yes, that is 900 MILLION paid not to a foreign government, but to a foreign airline. I did not see any American airlines in that Top 100 list.
Another search revealed that in the federal assistance provided to my home state of Delaware for the FY 2008, coming in at #10, with a total of $12,935,000, was Providence Creek Academy Charter School. $12 Million Dollars. To one school. I'm no auditor, but looking at their financial statements, I did not see any lines on the financial statements indicating outstanding loans of that size, contributed assets of that size, and certainly not income of that size. No magic footnotes either, mentioning such a large windfall. Hmmmmm.
In FY 2002, it seems The Sands Inc, owners of a hotel and restaurant in Rehoboth Beach were #10 in the top ten list of Delaware recipients of US Government assistance, with $19,500,000. Wonder if I could mention this the next time I go as a reason to comp or at least reduce my room rates.
This site is quite useful, as long as you have a long tall glass of Pepto by your side.
Labels: Effluvia
Monday, November 03, 2008
Adjectives & Mr. Chase Utley
I had an English teacher in high school we called Professor Tweed. He was a fastidious older gentleman who looked absolutely resplendent in tweed. Pants, kerchief, suit jacket, we even swore his clipped greyish mustache was woven of tweed as well. Having a bit of free time after retiring from professorial duties at Princeton and other colleges on the Ivy circuit, he signed up at our lucky high school to teach a few English lit courses. Those of us high on the self-delusion scale as regards our writing abilities were thrilled to have someone of such caliber at our small college prep school.
"Ha!," we crowed, "now, we’ll have someone on staff who would truly appreciate the pains of our craft." Well, we were half right for 95% of us. Professor Tweed was truly in pain with the majority of us, most probably wondering if some gastric pains had caused his mind to be hobbled enough when he decided to offer his services to our school. One of our classmates went on into the writing trade while another ended up at NPR where he's been writing and producing various shows of national note, including "This American Life". For the rest of us, having our scribblings evaluated by such a talented editor made for quick realizations that our future writing would be limited to the Great American Office Memo or The Employee Review:A One-on-One Study in the Modern Sado-Masochistic Relationship. Being young, coltish, and doltish, the pain to our souls was quick to hit and hurt and quick to depart. "Oh, well. There’s always (law/med/MBA) school…..where my writing may REALLY be appreciated.
One of the many remarkable qualities about Professor Tweed was his acerbic wit. As he handed out marked papers, he would drop a quick line or two at each desk, like a samurai delivering flicks of his sword down upon a loathsome enemy. We, like the on-charging victim would stand straight for a second or two, before collapsing in slices of ourselves at our desk. For most of us, it became an honor and a contest to receive the most withering of praises. Like true lunks, still deep within our inner inkwells, we still believed in our suspect writing talent. So, rather than taking Prof. Tweed's prickly advice, we entrenched in our faults, constructing bunkers that would have had doughboys' admiring glances.
I had a special arrow in his quiver, one he launched practically with each of my paper’s returns. "Mr. Deadwood, I presume, was his familiar greeting to me. I had, have, and will have a preternatural affection for adjectives. "The more the better", was my battle-cry. I was personally responsible for Prof. Tweed's racing through a box of red carbon pencils in my senior year. My papers were skyscrapers of descriptive additions. They were returned, marked down to a ranch house. He did admire the depth of my research and my footnotes; a ton of work in those days when the Internet was available for use to only the top levels of our armed forces. He was a Hemingway Man, with limited admiration for Charles Dickens, so I was the fully loaded sentence that need to be skinned. By the end of the year, my writing did weigh less, spurred on by the forced diet he had us on. My last gasp at my old self appeared on the final exam and he, true to form, red-inked out the battalion of adjectives I had marching to and fro in my submitted answers. In one particularly heavy and ponderously loaded sentence, he drew a sword and red-marked all of the adjectives, with the sword emerging form the red pile like Arthur’s sword. He loved King Arthur and spoke on occasion of how that era is the time he’d like to come back to. The red pitched battle on my paper was his final attempt at curing what he thought ailed me. A note at the end of the exam, "Mr. Deadwood, we have fought the gallant battle. I am withdrawing from this war.", brought tears to my eyes. My over-adjectivizing was more of an adversary than I’d thought.
So, whenever I read or wrote anything after high school, I did try to economize on the clothing I’d put my nouns in. Being neither a fan of Hemingway’s nor of Dickens’, but a grudging admirer of their talents and their works, I have tried to corral my inner adjective.
Sometimes, though, there’s nothing like the great use of an adjective.
Case in point.
Friday.
Citizen’s Bank Park.
Philadelphia.
Celebration for becoming baseball's world champions.
Chase Utley, the Phillie’s brilliant shortstop, rises from his seat. He is a notoriously soft-spoken guy who avoids journalists and interviewers as if they were low and away fastballs.
He steps up to the mike.
World Champions!", he yells to the adoring crowd.
Applause, of the polite quality ensues.
He steps back to the mike.
World F%$#*ing Champions !!!
Hysterical applause. Players and coaches behind Utley clutch their chests. Parents cover their children's ears (O.K., maybe not in Philly). Taxi-drivers listening on the radio in the city crash into light posts. Mounted Philly cops try to calm their steeds.
A legend is made.
T-shirt's coming outing shortly.
NSFW, but definitely funny.
"Ha!," we crowed, "now, we’ll have someone on staff who would truly appreciate the pains of our craft." Well, we were half right for 95% of us. Professor Tweed was truly in pain with the majority of us, most probably wondering if some gastric pains had caused his mind to be hobbled enough when he decided to offer his services to our school. One of our classmates went on into the writing trade while another ended up at NPR where he's been writing and producing various shows of national note, including "This American Life". For the rest of us, having our scribblings evaluated by such a talented editor made for quick realizations that our future writing would be limited to the Great American Office Memo or The Employee Review:A One-on-One Study in the Modern Sado-Masochistic Relationship. Being young, coltish, and doltish, the pain to our souls was quick to hit and hurt and quick to depart. "Oh, well. There’s always (law/med/MBA) school…..where my writing may REALLY be appreciated.
One of the many remarkable qualities about Professor Tweed was his acerbic wit. As he handed out marked papers, he would drop a quick line or two at each desk, like a samurai delivering flicks of his sword down upon a loathsome enemy. We, like the on-charging victim would stand straight for a second or two, before collapsing in slices of ourselves at our desk. For most of us, it became an honor and a contest to receive the most withering of praises. Like true lunks, still deep within our inner inkwells, we still believed in our suspect writing talent. So, rather than taking Prof. Tweed's prickly advice, we entrenched in our faults, constructing bunkers that would have had doughboys' admiring glances.
I had a special arrow in his quiver, one he launched practically with each of my paper’s returns. "Mr. Deadwood, I presume, was his familiar greeting to me. I had, have, and will have a preternatural affection for adjectives. "The more the better", was my battle-cry. I was personally responsible for Prof. Tweed's racing through a box of red carbon pencils in my senior year. My papers were skyscrapers of descriptive additions. They were returned, marked down to a ranch house. He did admire the depth of my research and my footnotes; a ton of work in those days when the Internet was available for use to only the top levels of our armed forces. He was a Hemingway Man, with limited admiration for Charles Dickens, so I was the fully loaded sentence that need to be skinned. By the end of the year, my writing did weigh less, spurred on by the forced diet he had us on. My last gasp at my old self appeared on the final exam and he, true to form, red-inked out the battalion of adjectives I had marching to and fro in my submitted answers. In one particularly heavy and ponderously loaded sentence, he drew a sword and red-marked all of the adjectives, with the sword emerging form the red pile like Arthur’s sword. He loved King Arthur and spoke on occasion of how that era is the time he’d like to come back to. The red pitched battle on my paper was his final attempt at curing what he thought ailed me. A note at the end of the exam, "Mr. Deadwood, we have fought the gallant battle. I am withdrawing from this war.", brought tears to my eyes. My over-adjectivizing was more of an adversary than I’d thought.
So, whenever I read or wrote anything after high school, I did try to economize on the clothing I’d put my nouns in. Being neither a fan of Hemingway’s nor of Dickens’, but a grudging admirer of their talents and their works, I have tried to corral my inner adjective.
Sometimes, though, there’s nothing like the great use of an adjective.
Case in point.
Friday.
Citizen’s Bank Park.
Philadelphia.
Celebration for becoming baseball's world champions.
Chase Utley, the Phillie’s brilliant shortstop, rises from his seat. He is a notoriously soft-spoken guy who avoids journalists and interviewers as if they were low and away fastballs.
He steps up to the mike.
World Champions!", he yells to the adoring crowd.
Applause, of the polite quality ensues.
He steps back to the mike.
World F%$#*ing Champions !!!
Hysterical applause. Players and coaches behind Utley clutch their chests. Parents cover their children's ears (O.K., maybe not in Philly). Taxi-drivers listening on the radio in the city crash into light posts. Mounted Philly cops try to calm their steeds.
A legend is made.
T-shirt's coming outing shortly.
NSFW, but definitely funny.
Labels: Educational, Effluvia, Philly
Friday, October 03, 2008
Change is Good?
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Row, Row, Row Your Boat
O.K., If this wasn't serious it would be a comedy. Suspend your grasp on reality. I'm a pirate with a bunch of buddy pirates tooling off the coast of Somalia in vessels slightly larger than your regular rowboat. Oh, yeah I have motors rather than rows. I and my non-swarthy companions approach and then hijack a very large and much taller vessel, the MV Faina (which may or may not be named after Faina Mogilevskaya), a Ukranian ship carrying 33 Russian made T-72 tank and an undisclosed quantity of rocket launchers. It hasn't been fully disclosed but I used pea-shooters, some boomerangs, and slingshots and some special Somalian rocks to hijack this vessel carrying armaments (although not Weapons of Mass Destruction). Please don't ask me why no one on board of the MV Faina seemed to think it would have been a good idea to pick up any of the rocket launchers or other arms readily available on board to shoot at us. You would think the least the crew would have done was to summon the chef and galley crew and have them pour hot water on us as we demanded that they throw down a rope ladder so we could climb up the 75 feet so as to board the ship. I mean, come on, even a little taunting would have made this adventure a little more exciting.Perhaps they had been watching too many DVD's of Johnny Depp's escapades and had convinced themselves that "Pirates of the Caribbean IV-The Somali Adventures" was already filming and they would be extras in the production. I can't explain it. All I know is that I and my maties are sitting pretty on the decks of the MV Faina waiting for our $35 Million payoff. A T-72 tank, anyone?
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
No Tears (Except of Joy) Shed
Our Girl in Chicago (OGIC), writes in this entry of the loss she felt when she stopped using a typewriter. I feel no empathy nor recognition with her finely written piece. I, instead, recall the continuous pain, remorse, and invention of new curse words when I think back on the college days when (Warning! Dating information coming) typewriters were the only alternative to arthritis-inducing handwriting.
Ms. Demanski (OGIC) must have been a wizard on the typewriter keys. Speed, no errors, no need for quick editing. My experience was not that romantic. Countless reports that had to be re-typed. Endless nights roaming the streets looking for open stores selling typewriter ribbons. Re-typing pages because a word had been typed incorrectly so many times that there were holes in the pages. Electricity going out in our student apartment thus shutting down my electric typewriter as I was half-way through finishing a paper due the next day. No, a typewriter was a soul-sucking machine that simply served the purposes of the reader, not the writer. The writer became a key-puncher (and letter eraser) shuffling the too-many drafts around on the floor, searching for the bon mot page that was chucked 2-3 drafts ago. My typing skills were so bad that if a professor offered the option of a hand-written paper, I immediately broke out paper and pen.
It wasn't that my typewriter was to blame. My folks, proud to have their first born trudge off to the Big Time of Schooling, scrimped and saved to send me off with an electric Olympia, a low-humming beast that built up my pecs as I lugged it around the dorm room. It was such a beauty that other dorm mates "borrowed" it. Let's just say that it was not the best decision on my part to lend it out. The Olympia was returned with some keys loosened and the typewriter ribbon bled of any black color. Somehow, it was an expected practice that freshman keep their machines fully maintained for the upper class folks who did you a favor by using your equipment. That lending practice ended halfway through the first semester, before the Olympia was totally inoperable.
I'll give Ms. Demanski (OGIC) one point. The low hum of the Olympia and the striking of the keys were soothing sounds. At first. When those striking keys ended up striking not so clear sentences, sounds of a non-soothing nature tended to erupt from my lips. Thanks God for great Croatian curses!
There is no nostalgia from this guy about typewriters. I was more than happy to donate mine to the local zoo so that the chimps could have their chance to write Shakespeare. I'd even throw in the barrel of White-Out and those nasty whiting strips, although I believe the monkeys' typing skills were far better than mine.
Labels: Effluvia
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Infinite Jest
David Foster Wallace may have appreciated this "tribute". Wrooommmmm.
Timothy McSweeney is devestated and lost. There was so much richness in his life; that's the part that is beyond me. "He was a beautiful, fantastic, brilliant"* and ultimately very fragile man.
* Deb Olin Unferth from here.
Timothy McSweeney is devestated and lost. There was so much richness in his life; that's the part that is beyond me. "He was a beautiful, fantastic, brilliant"* and ultimately very fragile man.
* Deb Olin Unferth from here.
Labels: Effluvia, Only in America
Monday, September 08, 2008
cryptozoology
This article caught my attention for two basic reasons.One, it concerned the NJ Devil, an alleged creature that graces my favorite hockey team.
Two, it introduced me to the potentially widely used word cryptozoology. Per the definition, cryptozoology's chief object is "to consider (an animal's) unexpected nature" The Jersey Devil would certainly fit within this definitive range. In addition, I believe, using the practices within cryptozoology, it may be possible to find a Presidential candidate to satisfy over 50% of the potential American voting public.
But,
Just like Sasquatch and the (NJ) Devil, this PrezCand is a shy and crafty creature, carefully hiding in the backwash of these US of A states, waiting for a change in the current non-accepting non-believing American public.
Labels: Effluvia
I Have a TOTAL Lack of...
...Understanding regarding high finance. Today, at the London Stock Exchange, trading was temporarily suspended due to "some customers experienc(ing) problems, after double the number of shares traded on London in minutes after the market opened". The Times of London goes on to quote"One City insider said that traders will lose "millions and millions and millions" of commission on deals, adding that today's closedown is "very serious and disastrous"". All serious stuff, no? This ruckus is based around the US government bailout of the "dee-dee-dow monetary twins" of Frannie Mae and Freddy Mac. A serious failure by these two quasi private/pseudo government organizations, wouldn't you say? A serious keelhauling would be an understandable punishment for the captains at the helm of these two sinking ships, right?Nope.
Again, the Times notes "It emerged today that Daniel Mudd, the departing head of Fannie Mae and Richard Syron, who is set to leave Freddie Mac, will share in a combined payoff of $23 million (£13 million) when they leave the mortgage groups.
Mr Mudd is expected to receive $9.3 million in pay and retirement benefits under the terms of his contract, while Mr Syron could walk away with $14.1 million. ".
I particularly love the understated use of emerge, suggesting a wart or huge pimple suddenly appearing. But, for these two fine gentlemen, it is a wondrous wart filled with incredible amounts of cash. If only I could be stricken with such a rich malady... Wonder what other perks these failures will receive?
Labels: Effluvia, Manly Advice
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Other Opinions
This piece on Spiked, written by Aussie journalist Guy Rundle, was posted prior to Gov. Palin's Wed. night speech. An interesting take on things political from an outsider's viewpoint. The link was pointed out by the ever cheeky Stephenesque, who opined here on the Alaska addition to the Republican ticket, here.
Anchorage Daily News points out some peculiarities here and here, while the Wasilla Frontiersman laments what the press is doing to the small town Gov. Palin used to be a mayor of, here.
Meanwhile, the Alaska State Trooper's organization is a bit teed off at being the whipping boy of the still current Alaska governor. Wonder if this divorce/child custody case will go Federal.
All in all, it is interesting times we live in.
Anchorage Daily News points out some peculiarities here and here, while the Wasilla Frontiersman laments what the press is doing to the small town Gov. Palin used to be a mayor of, here.
Meanwhile, the Alaska State Trooper's organization is a bit teed off at being the whipping boy of the still current Alaska governor. Wonder if this divorce/child custody case will go Federal.
All in all, it is interesting times we live in.
Labels: Effluvia
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
A Reading Place
In the mid 1980's, some financial hiccups similar in nature to our current unstable malaise made for nervous times for long-term employment. Promises of company longevity were few and those that were offered weren't worth the breath exhaled in hope by the H.R. dept extolling a company's worth. So, with a young son and the Ever Loving Wife home caring for our future, any position with moderate claims of survival past a year was worth investigating. I hooked myself up with a medium manufacturing conglomerate that showed some promise as it had collected a diverse group of smaller companies concentrating on such specific products that competition, at least in the States, was fairly limited. The cozy arena of these products was filled with equally sized firms that, while not really colluding, had established and, seemingly, mutually agreed upon territories and sales volume which kept everybody happy. Not rich. Not expansive. Happy.The company I'd joined had manufacturing plants in Maryland, Vermont, and upstate New York. In my position at the firm, I had to make repetitive and long-stay visits to all three plants, working at each facility on a rotating 1 week basis. While the plants in Vermont and New York were, I hate to use the word but it is so true, in bucolic areas it meant I'd be far away from the ELW and son from Monday through Friday during his formative years and our formative marriage. The fact that everything turned out so well these many years later can only be credited to the ELW's patience, resolve, and devotion.
As I was soon to discover, the company I'd joined with thoughts of staying with for a while was a company that seemed destined to be around considerably less than a while. Quality issues combined with an incalcitrant union incapable of seeing the fully-loaded Chinese freight train coming up over the horizon and cash flow issues requiring daily hand-wringing at the local bank made it obvious that I'd be in job search mode from the second week of my employment. In the mean while, the proverbial bread or bacon or whatever I was supposed to be bringing home had to be provided, so I stayed with the inevitably doomed firm for a year.
It was an intense 365 days, a period I look back on with wonder that our little family survived and one that I look back in pleasure for each day that began with an anxious exhaling of that night's dreams and nightmares. We were young and relatively naive about surviving tight and unpredictable times. The sun was always shining despite the occasional cumulonimbus plowing through.
From my end of that year's events, each 7:00 a.m to 7:00 p.m. day was jam-packed with minutiae and dooms to get through to the next day. As it wasn't my company, my plant, it became easier (and self-preserving) to step back sometimes and look at the sucking whirlpool that swallowed our daily efforts. What also kept my sanity intact was reading; it offered a sedative that staring at a motel TV screen could not provide. One of the books I read during that time was Frederick Exley's A Fan's Notes. Prior to my weekly stays in Watertown, I'd never heard of the book, first published in 1968, nor its author, Mr. Exley. The New York plant I spent some time at was located just outside of Watertown, NY. A local bookstore was toting local authors and Frederick Exley, a writer with a truly tragic life, was a Watertown native.
"A Fan's Notes", not a chipper novel, was a perfect book for me to read at the time. A story measured in tonnage as far as depressing goes, it put my own situation in perspective. Beautifully written, no, make that obsessively written, the main character, a "fictitious" Mr. Exley, moved at a sluggish pace through the heap of his life. It's a book I loved reading but one that, like Mr. Schaub, I would not urge any friend to read as I would not want to be connected with the long term deep mood that reading this book would bring.
What struck me most about the book and what I always come back to is how Exley's Watertown and "my" Watertown were so similar. After reading one of his chapters, I went out in the late evening and just drove around the downtown square of Watertown and then out to the beautiful farms and fields surrounding the town. One early summer evening, I even made it up to Alexandria Bay, where the darkening blue skies were streaked by the quickest moving cloud formations I'd ever seen. My experiences up in the Watertown area are inseparable from Exley's book and "A Fan's Notes" is part and parcel with my months up North. I can't imagine reading that book anywhere else than in Watertown. I've tried picking it up again to read in another location and have had no success. It's the same odd thing with Steinbeck's East of Eden. Part of a summer soon after college was spent lolling about in Sidari on Corfu. A trip to Corfu town for some cheap gyros ended up with the pickup of Steinbeck's book. I spent a few days on some of the rock formations just soaking up the rays and Steinbeck's words. Sidari and "East of Eden" are forever entwined for me, each partner in this reading marriage evoking the other.
How about you folks? Any book/place that are forever joined?
Labels: Effluvia
